The Unobtrusive Guest
by BitShifter
Summary: Steed goes unnoticed. Emma has an eye for detail.
1. The Talkative Sniper

**"The Unobtrusive Guest"**

An Avengers Fanfiction

Eighteenth in a series

_Steed goes unnoticed. Emma has an eye for detail._

**Disclaimer:** Some copyrighted characters have been borrowed

_Deep-cover KGB agent Pyotr "The Ladja" Pehlovich, known in England as the "late" Peter Peel, has succeeded in stealing the mysterious chemical known as Formula Thirteen. Now, accompanied by his chesty Russian Emma-surrogate Mistress Ursula Leov, he puts his plan into action..._

-oOo-

Emma stretched out over the railing of the reviewing stand, straining to see through a pair of binoculars. Several men on horseback were marching in close array, followed by a team of bagpipers. Off in the distance, a line of antique convertible cars crawled along the boulevard in the warm spring air.

Steed stood next to her and lightly tugged on the glasses' strap. While he waited, he looked down to admire the flash of leg that Mrs. Peel was showing between her shamrock-colored minidress and black leather boots. Whoever came up with the idea of the traditional "wearing of the green" for St. Patrick's Day probably didn't have such a display in mind.

"A rather impressive sight," she mused, rotating the lenses.

Steed nodded. "I couldn't agree more."

"The equestrian brigade approaches," Emma announced, pointing towards the street.

"I'll need my binoculars back."

Steed accepted the glasses from her and raised them to scan the avenue, but Mrs. Peel had forgotten the strap around her neck. Her head was pulled so close that it touched his.

"Hey!" she protested.

"You knew this was a parade," Steed scolded playfully. "Why didn't you bring your own?"

She disconnected the strap. "You're supposed to provide for your date," she teased.

"So this is a date, eh?" He produced a small pair of folding opera glasses from his pocket. "Here."

Emma popped them open and turned the focus knob. "Always prepared. I like that in a date."

The horses passed by and the motorcade was now in sight. A familiar green Bentley was bringing up the rear.

"So that's where your car went."

Steed nodded. He focused the binoculars on the smiling man waving from the back seat. "Here he comes."

Emma wrinkled her mouth. "A bit flashy for a Minister."

"He has aspirations for something higher. He wants to be seen as a man of the people."

There was a faint noise of someone walking on tiptoe down the steps of the reviewing stand. A stranger with ice-blue eyes casually moved up behind Steed and nudged his way to the railing, pushing Emma gently aside. He set a leather case on the wooden barrier and flipped open its latches. Inside was a sniper rifle, which he began assembling.

"Would you hold this for a moment, please?" he asked, handing Steed the scope while attaching the stock to the barrel.

"Eh? Oh. Certainly." Steed lowered his binoculars.

The stranger propped the rifle on the edge of the railing and moved it into firing position. "Emma dear?"

"Oh? Pardon me." She smiled and moved down a few inches. The stranger took the scope from Steed and traded him the leather case. Then he steadied the rifle and eyed along its length.

A loud crack split the morning air. Emma instantly recognized the sound.

"Did you hear that?"

Steed frowned. "I think someone fired at the Minister."

They both watched in alarm as the figure in the car crumpled forward, his shoulder blossoming with crimson.

"He's been hit!" Emma cried.

"The shot came from this direction." Steed spun around and began scanning the crowd. He came face-to-face with the stranger, who stared back amiably.

"Could I have my case, please?"

"What? Oh. Here you go." Steed handed him the rifle case. The stranger turned to leave, then thought better of it for a moment. He walked over and planted a kiss on Emma's cheek.

Steed noticed a vacant, confused look in her eyes. "Mrs. Peel?"

She looked around, puzzled. "Did something just...?"

-oOo-

Steed watched stoically as a nurse covered the sutures on the Minister's arm with a gauze bandage. When she was done, a security guard pushed the wheelchair through the emergency room doors and whisked it out to a waiting car. Steed gave a polite wave as the entourage pulled off. Emma shouldered in next to him.

"How is he?" she asked.

"He'll be fine. The assassin just grazed him. Probably will increase his chance for higher office, being wounded in the line of duty." Steed followed her out into the hospital waiting area. "But government officials don't like having pot-shots taken at them. The person in charge of security will be in very hot water."

"And who would that be?"

Steed smiled.

"Oh, Steed." Emma sympathetically rubbed his arm.

"We're not entirely without clues, though. I did find this." He showed her a small metal cylinder.

"A spent shell casing?"

"Right next to where we were standing," he said. "It must have bounced off something to land at our feet."

"Hard to believe the would-be assassin was so near, and neither of us could spot him."

Steed nodded. "I figured I would pay a visit to the Ministry this afternoon and show it to the Armourer."

Emma smirked, "...And you want me to tag along."

He adjusted his bowler and feigned innocence. "I wouldn't dream of inconveniencing you."

"You know that the Armourer doesn't like talking to you, but always has time for me." She flirtatiously adjusted the hem of her green minidress.

Steed grinned, pretending to be immune to her charms. "What can I say? The man is completely smitten."

"So you just thought you'd use me as your personal female expediter?"

"You make it sound so dirty."

Emma playfully nudged his hip. "I'll be happy to come along." She got a distant look in her eyes, as if probing for a long-lost memory. "Something very strange happened today. I want to know what it was."

-oOo-

Mistress Ursula Leov lazily stretched her arms as she reclined on the bed. She wore nothing but the briefest of silk panties. Her auburn hair, dyed to match Emma's, had been taken down from its braid and now spilled about her ample breasts.

"I wonder when Pyotr will return..."

The man next to her in bed gave her a squeeze. "I'm right _here._"

Leov let out a squeal that turned into a purr, then kissed him. "When did you get back?" she asked.

"I've been here the whole time. I returned an hour ago, after I left Steed at the hospital."

"The Minister's alive?"

"Of course. I didn't shoot to kill. The aim of my plan is to destroy John Steed, not eliminate a petty bureaucrat. Steed will now embark on an urgent and desperate search, thinking the assassin might make another attempt on the Minister's life. It's the only way he can save face." He gave a smug, evil grin. "That will lead him right into my trap."

Leov was silent for a moment. "Pyotr?" she suddenly called out. "Where are you?" She sighed heavily and said to herself, "Why does he keep leaving?"

"I'm _here!_" he answered with annoyance, then shook his head in resignation. The chemical should wear off soon enough. Formula Thirteen would try his patience if it weren't so useful.

Leov frowned in concentration. "It seems like you keep slipping away." She squinted at him like a scientist looking into a microscope.

"Don't strain yourself," the Ladja said. He hooked his finger in the waistband of her panties and gave a tug. "I'll just have to do something so that you can't forget my presence."

Mistress Leov reached over and brushed her fingers against a leather riding crop on the nightstand. "I will have to discipline you," she threatened, "if you call out your wife's name again."

Pehlovich gave a smirk. "Then perhaps I will."

-oOo-


	2. Hide In Plain Sight

**Chapter 2**

Steed held the door as Emma descended the stairs to the belowground den of the Ministry of Defence Armoury. She was dressed in a mint-green silk blouse—undoubtedly still channeling the Irish spirit from that morning—and a tight-fitting jade skirt with a side slit that indicated she wanted to appear dressy, but didn't rule out the possibility of suddenly unleashing some martial-arts kicks and knees. Black leather boots completed the ensemble, just as a reminder of her killing potential.

Steed sighed. He figured that the events at the parade had made a St. Patrick's Day kiss out of the question. Something always seemed to get in the way of him becoming more intimate with his partner. There was a lively sparkle in Emma's eyes—was it the excitement of chasing baddies, or did she want to get closer to him? Her expression was, as always, inscrutable.

The Armourer greeted them at the massive steel door, beaming with delight. "Mrs. Peel!" he said with genuine affection; then, spotting her companion, he added in a clipped monotone, "Steed."

"Don't sound so happy," Steed said.

"Let's see what you've brought me." He led them over to the workbench. Emma produced the shell casing from her skirt pocket.

"We were hoping you could tell us something about this," she said.

The Armourer gave it a cursory examination with a loupe, then a lengthier trip under the microscope. "It's impossible to narrow down the source of mass-produced ammunition," he said as he peered through the reticle. "But you're in luck, because this was a custom load."

Emma leaned in next to him with her elbows on the workbench. "Matched to a particular rifle?"

The Armourer nodded. "Exactly. Snipers frequently use custom rounds." He stepped aside to let Emma peek into the lens.

"I don't suppose he signed his name to it?" she asked.

"No, but he might as well have. I recognize the work," the Armourer said. "A Russian named Groslov."

"Russian?" Steed perked to attention. He exchanged a knowing glance with Mrs. Peel.

Emma mused, "Mistress Leov was mixed up with the robotic corgis and the dog show ransom..."

"But she was just released from prison. Why get involved?" Steed countered. "Unless someone's paying enough to make it worth her while."

"I know one man she would be happy to do it for, without getting a single penny."

Steed frowned. "The Ladja is missing, presumed dead," he reminded her.

"I consider that a _pre_-mature _pre_-sumption," Emma lilted.

-oOo-

The Ladja rolled over in bed to find it empty. Ursula was already up, standing at the foot of the bed, dressing in front of a mirror. He watched as she laced a bodice across her massive expanse of chest. The top was made from an extra-thin vinyl she had specially chosen to outline her breasts in anatomical detail. Pehlovich shook his head. There was such a thing as too much. Size wasn't everything; he far preferred Emma's more sensible bosom. The thought that Steed was undoubtedly nuzzling his wife's perfect breasts only doubled his seething desire to destroy the man.

Steed had brought about many changes in Emma, and all of them were bad. He had taken a beautiful, elegant woman and awakened in her a spirit of independence and feistiness, transforming her from an obedient wife into a formidable crusader. Unforgivable. That's why it was not only fitting that Steed be killed, but that it should be done by Emma's hand. She would cut down the man that had spoiled her noble purity.

The Ladja gestured to the sniper rifle case on the dresser. "Thanks for letting me use this."

"You like it? Groslov made it for me."

"Custom job?"

Leov nodded.

"Hmm... it might be possible to trace the bullet or the shell, if it was specially-made ammunition."

"Would it really be so unique?"

"A Ministry boffin could recognize the workmanship," he mused. "It's my fault. I should have retrieved the casing." _Instead of kissing Emma,_ he thought to himself.

"What should we do?"

"Steed and the others may suspect I'm alive. If they discover your involvement in this, they'll wonder if you've come into contact with me, which I'm sure is why they released you from prison on a technicality. The antics at the dog show were irrelevant—it appeared to be a simple money grab. But they won't overlook gunshots at politicians. They'll dig, and deeply."

Leov shook her head. "Groslov won't talk."

"I'm sure of that, since he's out-of-town this month," Pehlovich said. "But his records could reveal something better left hidden." He opened the nightstand drawer and held up the vial of Formula Thirteen.

"I'll pay his warehouse a visit and erase your presence from his files, just to be safe."

-oOo-

Pyotr Pehlovich tiptoed across the roof of the small munitions shop in London-Over-The-Border. He had encountered a formidable lock on the front door, and he didn't want to leave any evidence of his trip by tampering with it. Also, there was always the possibility of a man standing guard inside. He decided it would be safest to creep up the fire stair and enter through the skylight.

Crouching next to the glass pane, he peered down to the floor below. Just as he suspected, a guard. The decision not to go barging through the front door had been a wise one. Pehlovich knew he could have easily sneaked in using Formula Thirteen, but his supply was limited; and even though a KGB chemist was busy synthesizing the formula, there was no guarantee the lab could make more. It was best to ration the vial except when absolutely necessary.

Still, he was not in the mood for conversation with one of Groslov's flunkies. Pehlovich waited until the guard moved away to patrol the office area and then silently eased open the skylight. He climbed onto the catwalk below and positioned himself to drop down on the guard on the next pass.

It was quick work to knock the man out, particularly since The Ladja had both British and Russian combat training. He left the guard propped against a crate and headed into Groslov's office. Three file cabinets were lined up against the wall.

Pehlovich sighed. What name would the file be under? She certainly would not have used her real name, "Ursula Leov." He should have asked before he left. There was nothing for it; he would have to rifle through all of the files to find the appropriate one.

He didn't have far to look—there was an unusual file in the A's, the first drawer he opened. The tab read "Yekaterina Alexeyevna". Pehlovich smiled. Catherine the Great. The Mistress fancied herself Autocrat of the Russias. An obvious alias to a Russian, but maybe not-so-obvious to a Londoner. He pulled the folder out and examined the contents; it did indeed have specifications for the sniper rifle, ammunition, and several other explosive goodies that Ursula had splurged on.

The Ladja decided it would be best to borrow the file permanently until Groslov returned. He climbed the metal ladder back up to the catwalk and was about to crawl through the skylight when the sound of an approaching engine caused him to duck for cover. A familiar green Bentley had pulled into the lot.

Pehlovich scowled. Predictable. Steed was always interfering in his business. Wasn't it enough that he had taken away Emma? But it was too early to allow Steed to dig up something; the trap wasn't ready yet. At this point, it was important that the investigation lead to a dead end, with nothing to sow suspicion.

He knew Steed would blithely pick the lock and enter through the front door; it was his style. Pehlovich would have liked to rouse the guard, just to see the two of them fight it out. But there wasn't even enough time to make it down to the warehouse floor. Only one thing could thwart Steed's visit now: Formula Thirteen.

The Ladja poured out a small amount of the solution onto himself, then tried to trickle a stream through the maze of steel beams onto the guard below. The liquid splashed and dripped everywhere. What a waste. At least a sufficient amount had found its way onto the unconscious body. Steed would find an empty warehouse without any thread to follow.

No longer afraid of being detected, Pehlovich sat back and watched.

-oOo-

Steed moved stealthily towards the front door of the munitions shop. He felt guilty about not mentioning to Mrs. Peel that he knew where Groslov made his weapons; but since there was a chance that Leov or even The Ladja would be here, he wanted to protect her from a dangerous confrontation involving guns. Although, considering the number of devastating karate strikes Mrs. Peel had rained down on her opponents over the past year, it might be just as much protecting the baddies.

He planned to pick the lock in order to catch anyone inside off guard. This proved more difficult than he expected; it took several minutes, and he couldn't help making some rather noticeable scraping noises. Nevertheless, no one came to greet him when he eased the door open.

A quick glance showed the place was deserted. The only sound was a vague dripping; for a moment he thought he saw something among the crates, but as he moved closer, nothing seemed out of place. Still, it was odd to leave the shop unattended without so much as an electronic alarm.

Groslov was nowhere to be seen. Steed spotted a small office adjoining the work floor with three file cabinets against one wall; he immediately began searching the drawers.

He doubted that the Mistress would use her real name "Leov", so he checked all of the tongue-in-cheek aliases he could think of: Karenina, Godunov, Zhivago, Karamazov. There were no matches, nothing out of the ordinary. After finishing all the drawers, Steed sighed. The only remaining option was to track down Groslov and pump him for information.

Steed started to leave, then hesitated. It wouldn't hurt to check the back of the warehouse in case something interesting was hidden behind the crates—like maybe a secret file cabinet for special customers. As he walked towards the rear, he suddenly felt drops of liquid falling on him.

He stumbled as his foot got caught against an obstacle on the floor. A disheveled man in a guard uniform was sprawled against a crate. Steed frowned. Why hadn't he noticed that before? The body was in plain sight; it should have been visible the moment he opened the front door.

Steed leaned over and pressed his fingers near the man's throat. The guard was alive, but unconscious. A quick examination showed a bruise near the base of the neck. This was no drunken stupor; someone had been here before him and attacked the guard. Could it have been the assassin, trying to erase his tracks? Perhaps the intruder was still around. Steed removed his bowler, the brim still wet with fluid, and scanned the piping above him.

-oOo-

The Ladja shook his head. Damn that Steed! The man could literally not walk anywhere without tripping over a body.

Pehlovich sprinted towards the skylight and launched himself onto the roof. He had to get out of sight; there was no easy way to hide from Steed now. He crouched on the tar paper and waited.

The unconscious guard would be a mystery, but couldn't reveal any secrets even when he did wake up. Only Groslov could answer Steed's questions, and the Russian wouldn't be back in town for another two weeks. Any evidence directly linking Leov to the shooting was in the folder he had just stolen. That should put the brakes on any investigation for now.

Pehlovich watched as Steed exited the building, fired up the Bentley, and pulled away. He smiled to himself.

Steed would have an interesting day, at least.

-oOo-


	3. The Lady's Chambers

**Chapter 3**

Steed pulled the Bentley to a stop in front of Mrs. Peel's apartment. At least now she wouldn't be upset that he didn't take her along on his trip to Groslov's place. They would both have to wait for the Ministry to chase down the Russian's whereabouts before any more questions could be answered about the sniper rifle.

A passerby nearly knocked Steed off the sidewalk and into traffic. Was London experiencing an epidemic of rudeness? People had been bumping into him ever since he got out of the car. He gallantly tipped his bowler to the offenders; at least someone should uphold the English way.

Inside, the giant eyeball fluttered its long lashes when Steed pressed the bell. He waved cheerfully at the wide-angle lens. The door cracked open and a sliver of Mrs. Peel's face became visible.

"I'm not dressed," she sang out. "Just wait a minute while I put something on."

Changing again? This would be her third outfit of the day. She must have something planned for the afternoon. It was unlikely that she would drop by a pub for green beer, so he figured it must be a workout—either fencing or gymnastics.

Steed waited for several minutes expecting her return. Had she forgotten about him? Perhaps some problem had arisen, like baddies in the cupboard. The door was still unlatched, so Steed flung it open and rushed inside, prepared for a scuffle.

"Mrs. Peel?" His voice trailed off as he almost stopped breathing.

Framed in the bathroom doorway, Emma stood at the sink wearing nothing but a towel draped loosely around her waist. Her profile was that of a goddess, with her breasts sharply alert and one beautiful leg thrust forth from the gap in the white cotton wrap. Steed watched in amazement as she brushed her hair back and fastened it into a ponytail.

Before he could regain the power of speech, she removed the towel from her waist and hung it on a hook near the bathroom door. Then she walked towards him, completely nude.

Steed snapped out of his trance. "Mrs. Peel! Your towel!" His gentleman's instincts took over as his hands immediately flew up to cover his eyes.

Emma showed no reaction as she walked past. Steed peeped between his spread fingers, only to be greeted with a view of her perfectly-shaped naked rear staring back at him. Truly incredible.

Steed suddenly wondered if he had misunderstood the situation. Mrs. Peel leaving the door ajar, telling him to wait while she changed, then parading around unclothed—could she be trying to seduce him? He had long suspected that in spite of her elegant exterior, she was very sexually liberated. This aggressive approach would be entirely her style. The cumulative effect of his charm may have finally melted her. In that case, his feeble, prudish response might even be considered an insult. Perhaps he should disrobe as well?

Emma retracted the sliding doors to expose the bedroom. Things were definitely heating up. Steed shut the apartment door and followed her over to the bed, loosening his tie. Mrs. Peel abruptly turned toward the dresser and bumped his hip. She seemed to notice him for the first time.

"Steed? When did you get here?"

He halted removing his tie. "When you let me in, a few minutes ago."

"Don't be silly. I had just gotten out of the shower then."

Steed gave her a sly smile. "You're not exactly fully dressed now." Before he could elaborate, she had turned and walked away.

The smile vanished from his face; he wrinkled his mouth, crestfallen. This definitely wasn't a seduction attempt. Good thing he'd kept his clothes on.

Mrs. Peel opened a drawer and started pulling out pairs of panties, holding them up to eye-level to judge which ones struck her fancy. Steed watched for a moment, wistful. If they were a couple, he might enjoy this delightful sight every day.

Still, this was an inappropriate invasion of privacy, even if accidental. He had to get out of here; Mrs. Peel was obviously drugged in some way. Steed went to the apartment door and started tugging on the handle, only to remember that it was specially reinforced with a secret lock to keep out baddies. What did Mrs. Peel press to unlock it? He had seen her do it before, but after the past few minutes, he found it hard to concentrate. He checked the nearby vase and statuary. Where was the release hidden?

"Mrs. Peel?" he called out, desperately working on the door. "I'll just step out for a second, if you could show me how to undo the lock." He was used to danger, but this approached a whole new level. He checked her progress from the corner of his eye.

Emma had settled on a pair of panties so lightweight they were virtually transparent. Steed couldn't help but grin at the girlish bows. While she might be able to best many men in a fight, one could never forget she was a woman. He watched mesmerized as she tugged them over her hips. The thin fabric barely obscured her delicate cinnamon curls. If this was some sort of game to reduce him to a helpless puddle, it was working.

Mrs. Peel continued to ignore him. She selected a lacy bra, then decided against it, instead slipping a satin camisole over her shoulders to drape clingily over her breasts. As much as Steed enjoyed the lingerie show, he was becoming increasingly alarmed by her seeming unawareness of his presence.

He suddenly realized he couldn't leave, even if this was a conflict of trust. He had to stay and protect her; if Mrs. Peel had been drugged in a way that made her oblivious to people around her, she would have no defense against any intruder. A would-be assassin could just walk right up...

Steed's eyes widened. Perhaps that's what had happened this morning—and was meant to happen again. The drug must be somewhere in the apartment, and had been intended for him, as well. The only reason he hadn't been affected yet was because of his detour to Groslov's place. He might be breathing in a chemical that was even now rendering him unable to detect an attacker. The sniper could already be in this very room.

Steed grabbed Emma by the arm, even though she was still only in her underwear.

"Mrs. Peel! We need to get out of here, _now_."

"Steed! You shouldn't sneak in here without knocking," she chided. "A few minutes earlier, and you would have caught me indisposed."

"Do you still have the shell casing?" he asked. Steed positioned her in an easily-defended spot and started hunting around the room, looking for any hidden intruders. It was possible the assassin had sneaked in to retrieve the evidence.

Emma didn't answer; she had returned to the dresser, blithely donning some stirrup pants and a sporty top while humming a Beatles tune. Steed finished his search of the flat and put his arm around her waist to guide her back to the center of the room. Emma snuggled warmly into his grasp.

"Steed?" she smiled. "How did you get here?"

"You let me in," he said evenly. He released her so he could dial the phone for the Ministry.

Emma wandered off again, over to the mirror. She bent over deeply, examining the reflection of her backside for any weight gain. Then she lifted her top and camisole, casually checking her bare breasts for firmness. Steed gave a wry smile, fighting back arousal. Did Mrs. Peel have a touch of insecurity?

"This is the Armourer," came the voice from the phone.

"Steed here. I have reason to believe that Mrs. Peel and I were drugged this morning when the sniper took his shot."

The Armourer was quiet, as if lost in thought. "Bring Mrs. Peel with you. I have someone here for you to meet."

Steed hung up the phone as Emma bumped into him again. "Steed? What are you doing here?"

"You said that something strange was going on this morning, and you were right," he announced. "I may have uncovered an important clue. We need to go to the Armoury."

She flitted breezily over to the dresser. "In that case, I'll just get changed..."

"No!" Steed protested in panic; then he added, more calmly, "I mean, what you're wearing now will be fine."

After the breathtaking views he had just been exposed to, he wasn't sure his heart could survive an encore performance.

-oOo-


	4. Hyperobservancy

**Chapter 4**

On the drive back to the Ministry, Emma was her usual self, head held high like a proud cat in the passenger seat of the Bentley. Steed glanced sideways to check his partner.

"Feeling all right, Mrs. Peel?"

"Why shouldn't I be?"

Her behavior was now back to normal; she was completely aware of his presence. And even though the drug from her apartment must have worn off, she still showed no sign of remembering his intrusion while she was naked. How would he explain that the only reason he stayed around while she was unclothed was to protect her from any attackers?

"The Armourer says he has some answers," Steed announced as he pulled into the lot.

"We were just here this morning," Emma said. "I wonder what he could have come up with?"

Steed held the door as she got out of the car. She looked totally comfortable in her gym attire. If only he could stop thinking about what she was wearing—and not wearing—beneath it...

Emma led the way back downstairs. She had become accustomed to seeing anything when she opened the door, from a bulletproof umbrella to a weaponized robotic Welsh Corgi. This time, there was nothing out of the ordinary, save a stranger wearing a lab coat and thick glasses. Steed came down and stood next to her, nodding a greeting to the two men. The Armourer got straight to the point.

"Someone fired a shot that hit the Minister right under your very noses this morning. And while I have no doubt that Steed could be easily duped, Mrs. Peel is quite perceptive. There is only one possibility: Formula Thirteen."

Steed took the barb in stride. "What exactly is that?"

"An experimental compound developed by the Ministry. A small amount was stolen from a research lab last Tuesday."

Emma frowned. "The night of the dog show?"

"I guess that lets Leov off the hook," Steed mused. "We know where she was."

"But not where her partner was," Emma countered.

"Holding out to the last, Mrs. Peel?" he teased. This time, however, he was starting to agree with her. The hand of the late Ladja was becoming more apparent. Could the dog show have been a diversion for the theft of the secret chemical?

"Formula Thirteen is one of our more promising developments," the Armourer explained. "It's quite valuable for spies. The person wearing it can become virtually invisible when people around him inhale the vapor it produces."

Steed furrowed his brow. Wearing it? Wasn't Mrs. Peel's apartment filled with the gas?

"However, it can be defeated," the Armourer added.

Steed tapped the handle of his umbrella. "There's an antidote?"

"No, but the vapor can be rendered ineffective."

"Don't breathe?" Emma smirked.

"There's an easier way," the Armourer said. "I'll let the specialist explain. Dr. Crenshaw?"

The man in the lab coat stepped forward and adjusted his glasses. "So, this is Mrs. Peel," he said, staring intently at Emma. "Married? But she's not wearing a ring. Conclusion: Divorced or widowed."

"Her husband is dead," the Armourer confirmed.

"Missing," Emma corrected.

"Excellent physique—undoubtedly martial arts training," the doctor said as he continued to look her over. "And fencing. You can tell by the way she moves her feet. She probably was interrupted on the way to the gym, judging from her sports clothes. Lives in town, drives a Lotus Elan..."

"You've seen her out and about," Steed accused.

"Never. You can clearly see hanging out of her purse the distinctive yellow and green of a Lotus key fob. Her hair is blown back just slightly at the bang line, indicative of slower-speed city driving, rather than country driving, in a convertible. Conclusion: Elan."

"Actually, she was riding in my Bentley," Steed corrected.

"I drove my car this morning," Emma reminded him. "And it is an Elan."

"You've showered since," Steed said. "His conclusion could have been completely wrong."

Crenshaw ignored them as he circled Emma appraisingly. "Height, 174 centimeters; weight, just under eight and a half stone."

"You're one of those carnival chaps," she said.

"Measurements 34-25-36, cup size C. Although she's not wearing a bra under that top now, just a drape, a camisole. Creates very little strap outline, probably satin—"

Mrs. Peel crossed her arms over her chest as if being violated by X-ray vision. Dr. Crenshaw moved his head next to Steed's and lowered his voice conspiratorially.

"But then, you already know what she's wearing under that. You were in the room when she put it on."

"_What?_" Emma retorted indignantly. "You've completely missed the mark with that one. Tell him, Steed. I had just finished dressing when you showed up."

Steed pursed his lips. "How did you know?"

"You still have traces of Formula Thirteen on you. I recognize the scent."

"I would have thought it was odorless," Steed said.

"Oh, no; it has an odor, but it's not easily noticed."

Emma interrupted, "So what he said was true? About you being present when I dressed?" She had a wry smile, but Steed knew he would be in deep trouble later.

Dr. Crenshaw turned to Emma. "Do you think you could have detected Steed in your bedroom?"

"Of course."

"You've been looking at me since I walked in. How many times have I blinked? Crossed the room? Put my finger to my lips in thought?"

Emma was taken aback. "I... didn't notice."

"That's because it's completely unremarkable, like the sound of your own breathing, or the drone of traffic noise. Imagine that you could be made to consider my voice unremarkable, like a random conversation on the subway, or even my presence itself to be completely forgettable, like a face in a crowd."

She frowned. "That seems unlikely."

Crenshaw smiled. "Did you see the sign on the Armoury door when you walked in?"

"Danger—explosives?" Emma ventured

"No. You're guessing. It was a warning sign, not meant to be ignored. But you can't seem to remember it. Why?"

She hesitated. "It wasn't important to me. Besides, I'd seen it many times before."

"So familiarity made it seem less remarkable," he prompted. "Then what establishes the importance of an item?"

Emma shrugged. "Memory? Logic?"

"When we see something familiar, chemical signals are released in the brain indicating that it is entirely ordinary, not worthy of notice," Crenshaw explained. "Inhaling Formula Thirteen increases the level of these chemical signals. The person wearing the formula can drop completely below the threshold of perception."

He turned to Steed. "How did you become doused with Formula Thirteen?"

"It must have been at Groslov's shop," Steed said.

Emma arched an eyebrow at him. "You went to see Groslov without me?"

Steed hung his head. His list of transgressions was growing. He removed his bowler and handed it to Crenshaw.

"There was a strange liquid dripping from the catwalk," Steed said. "It covered the brim of my hat."

Crenshaw sniffed the edge. "Mostly evaporated, but still quite a concentration. I imagine you must have been completely invisible to Mrs. Peel when you stopped by."

Emma said nothing; she merely gave Steed a withering glance. Payment was getting more expensive by the minute. She turned to Dr. Crenshaw.

"So you're saying I wouldn't even be able to detect the presence of a complete stranger?"

The doctor raised his index finger in the air for emphasis. "Now, that," he said, "is unlikely. A stranger would be running a huge risk that you'd notice him. However, anyone whose face you're familiar with would have a high probability of success. You've seen a sniper rifle assembled before, perhaps even done it yourself, so that wouldn't be novel or new. As for this morning's assassin, it would most likely be a person you're acquainted with."

"Leov," Steed offered.

"The Ladja?" Emma countered.

Steed shook his head. He doubted that. The instant that Mrs. Peel caught sight of The Ladja's chessboard mask, she would attack him without hesitation. No chemical could be strong enough to overpower her killer instinct towards her nemesis.

"I don't think you could be fooled into not noticing _him_," Steed said.

"Besides," the Armourer added, "isn't he dead?"

"I dreamt The Ladja was alive just a few weeks ago," Emma said. "And I attended the funeral of Group Captain Willcombe-Smythe, only to be nearly murdered by him two days later. He wasn't dead, either."

"So you're saying that if you saw someone presumed dead, you wouldn't necessarily think it was out of the ordinary?"

"I guess I don't truly consider anyone to be dead until I see it for myself," she mused. "Even my own husband's body was never found. It seems like I'm never given the luxury of closure." She got a moody, distant look on her face. "But I know for certain that the Group Captain is dead. I saw him shot to death—" Emma halted in mid-sentence.

"Oh?" Crenshaw prompted.

"By... The Ladja. He used a sniper rifle."

"So the image would be familiar to you. The Ladja holding a sniper rifle. Just seeing it once might lower the novelty of the sight to the point that Formula Thirteen made it seem ordinary."

"There's another possibility," Steed said. "Remember, The Ladja was supposed to be a double agent, working for the Ministry. We could never discover his identity. If he wasn't wearing his mask, he might be someone that we would ordinarily consider a friend or ally."

"Indeed..." Emma nodded thoughtfully. She uncrossed her arms and put her hands on her hips. "So, doctor, you claim that Formula Thirteen can be defeated?"

"There are twenty-six steps leading down to the basement," Crenshaw began. "Four light switches next to the door; 3 on, 1 off. The bricks next to the doorframe have been chipped, probably while moving a piece of heavy equipment into this room. The sign on the door that you had trouble remembering reads 'Caution—Active Weapons Range'."

"Most observant," she said.

"_Hyperobservancy_, Mrs. Peel," he explained. "That's the key. Focusing on minutiae, with an incredible attention to detail. This heightened sense of awareness produces chemicals in your brain that counteract Formula Thirteen. You can't be fooled into thinking that something is familiar or unimportant if you're in the habit of seeing everything as _unfamiliar_ and _important_."

The Armourer stepped forward. "That's why it is vital that one of you be trained in hyperobservancy. I would recommend Mrs. Peel, due to her superior mental capabilities."

Steed wrinkled his mouth. "Superior? Wait a minute—"

Emma nodded. "Very well. I accept."

"Don't I get a vote in this?" Steed protested.

Mrs. Peel gave Steed a stern look. "That way, there'll be no more incidents of you entering my dressing chamber while I'm _au naturel_."

She gave him a teasing smile and added, "Without my permission..."

-oOo-


	5. A Day At The Museum

**Chapter 5**

For the past few days, Steed hadn't even had to knock on Mrs. Peel's door. She had become eerily psychic, knowing whenever he approached. Perhaps it was the sound of the Bentley out on the street that tipped her off, but he suspected it was more likely that she had learned to recognize his footsteps. He had even faked a limp to throw her off guard; but when he reached the fluttering lashes in the hall, the speaker had crackled with static and Mrs. Peel's firm voice had said, "You can't fool me, Steed." It made him feel better to imagine that she had incorrectly given the same greeting to any deliverymen and door-to-door charities that stopped by.

He found her casually lounging on the sofa in an Oriental kimono, reading the morning newspaper. This had been her typical position the entire week. He was now expected to take his customary spot at the other end of the couch to deliver a foot massage. Emma had made sure to wear a robe every time, so that when she adjusted the folds of her garment, he would be treated to a brief glimpse of revealing lingerie. Then, while he was working on one foot, she would let the other droop lazily so that her toes rested in his lap. It was all part of a subtle torture designed to test the limits of male restraint. How much longer before he worked off the debt of seeing her completely bare?

Mrs. Peel looked up from The Times and said, "I'll forgive your lateness, since you had to fix the broken windscreen on the Bentley."

"What? How in the world...?"

"Elementary, my dear Steed. Your bowler is pulled down more tightly than usual, undoubtedly to keep your hair from flying about as you drove. Even from this distance, I recognize a small amount of distinctive adhesive on your thumbnail. It's from glazier's tape when you attempted a makeshift repair. Conclusion: broken windscreen."

"Perhaps my bowler shrunk in the rain and I like playing with tape," he teased.

Emma said breezily, "You might as well produce the eclair you've brought for me." He was clutching a paper bag in one hand.

"What makes you think that's what's inside?"

"You bought it as a small token of apology for leaving me out when you went to Groslov's place. You know that I like pastries from Richaud's. In spite of the plain brown unmarked bag, I can detect two longish marks where the icing has come in contact with the paper and soaked through, indicating an oblong shape inside. Conclusion: eclair."

"I can see that Dr. Crenshaw has been drilling you feverishly."

Emma gestured by wiggling her toes, indicating he should take his usual place at her feet. Steed handed her the bag and sat down at the honored spot of contrition. She removed the pastry and gave the icing a tentative lick, nodding her approval.

"The eclair alone will not be sufficient," Emma said haughtily. "But it's a good start. After you finish with my feet, prepare some tea." She gave him a fiendish smile.

"You're going to have a chance to put your skills to use today," Steed grinned back. "The Minister is appearing in public. You can prove the worth of your hyperobservancy training."

"Oh, ho?" Emma raised an eyebrow. "Is that skepticism I detect? Very well, I accept your challenge."

"He's opening a new exhibit at the museum this afternoon," Steed explained. "Perhaps our unobtrusive sniper will make another appearance—or disappearance, as it were."

"The Elgin marbles are back in the Duveen," she said. "What's left to open?"

"Not the British Museum, the Natural History Museum," Steed corrected, tickling the sole of her foot.

Emma laughed and took a bite of the eclair. "Mmm. We can check out Dippy and the New Whale Hall." She bent forward to offer him some of the pastry.

Steed opened his mouth as she guided the eclair in. After he took a single bite, she snatched it back away.

"Feet first, then the museum," she said.

-oOo-

The couple moved casually through the curator's storeroom, shoving crates and boxes out of the way. They showed no fear of being noticed.

"One more flesh wound on the Minister should put Steed's career on the ropes, and get him set up for my big finish," Pyotr explained.

Usrula Leov said smugly, "Then we should finish off your skinny wife as well."

Pyotr shook his head. "I don't know why I let you come along." Her outfit was a risque combination of leather and latex, with a neckline showing a mountain of cleavage and a low waist revealing a sizable portion of her backside. She strutted next to him, her nipples swollen and sharp with excitement. He didn't have the heart to remind her that no one could appreciate this lewd display, since Formula Thirteen had rendered her undetectable.

"It's _my_ sniper rifle," Leov said. "This time, _I'll_ be here to pick up the cartridge."

"Thank you, Catherine the Great." He shouldered the weapon. "Distance won't be an issue today, but aim will be; I need to be precise so as not to kill the Minister, but leave a scar that will remind him forever of John Steed's failure."

There was very little of the obscuring formula left, although the KGB chemist had sounded very hopeful about reproducing and even improving the chemical. Pyotr would have thought it was a waste using it on his partner, except that if things went badly, Ursula could run interference. Since she had just been released from prison, he could make _her_ take the blame for the gunshots to preserve the idea that he was still dead.

"Just remember, you need to approach people slowly, naturally," Pyotr cautioned.

Two guards were stationed at the entrance to the Grand Opening Gallery. The Ladja sighed as he saw Leov's eyes light up. She charged at them like a kid in a candy store, red hair flailing as she unleashed a flurry of kicks and strikes. Her fighting style was very much like Emma's, except it lacked the grace and artistry; Ursula was more like a bar-room brawler than an elegant poet. She finally felled one with a rigid chop just below his ear; Pyotr winced as he watched her fire a kick squarely between the legs of the other. The guard let out a stunned gasp and sank to the ground as the nerve paralysis took effect. Leov mockingly clutched her own groin and snickered.

"Such weakness," she smirked.

"You enjoyed that entirely too much," Pyotr said. "But there was no need. We aren't detectable as long as we get close enough for the formula to be inhaled."

Leov looked at him, puzzled. "But I can still see you."

"I've discovered that during the time that your body is inundated with the chemical, you become immune to the effects," he said. "That's why you can see me. But observers can still notice us at a distance—it's not an invisibility formula. You need to sneak up stealthily and get within your target's breathing range."

The big-chested Russian put her hands on her hips and snorted, "Where's the fun in that?"

-oOo-

Steed pointed the tip of his umbrella at the massive Diplodocus dinosaur skeleton. "Almost as big as my dog Freckles."

"Don't poke Dippy," Emma scolded. "You'll bring him down on top of us."

She was dressed in her leathers; not the thick, protective ones, but the thin ones she used for fighting. Steed tried to imagine what it must have looked like as she was putting them on. Mrs. Peel would have been completely naked, except for her panties. Then she would step into each leg, tugging the leather smoothly up over her thighs; next, she would shrug the back of the suit over her shoulders, threading her arms through the sleeves. Finally, the soft black calfskin would cup her bare breasts as she pulled up on the zipper, making the clingy material snug across her well-defined yet delicate pink nipples. Ever since he had seen her getting dressed, he couldn't drive such images out of his mind. The foot massages Mrs. Peel was requiring as penance did nothing to lessen the effect.

"I showed up early, but nothing seems to be happening," Steed said. "There are two men stationed at the entrance to the gallery. They'll alert me if they see anything suspicious."

Emma said breezily, "And if it's something they can't detect?"

"I assume your eyes and ears are in full operation. Have you noticed anything yet with your special training?"

She shook her head. "I've been counting the bones in every exhibit, noting the location of all electric switches and outlets, and even guessing the height and weight of every visitor," Emma said. "The chemical levels in my brain should be sufficient to resist Formula Thirteen. But still nothing."

"Methinks this training isn't all it's cracked up to be," Steed teased. "Why not teach every agent hyperobservancy, if it's so useful?"

"They would suffer from what Dr. Crenshaw lovingly refers to as 'Can't-See-The-Forest-For-The-Trees' Syndrome. The agent can become so focused on minutiae, he loses sight of the mission, thus increasing the likelihood of a mistake," Emma explained. "For example, it would be like carefully noting the manufacturer, caliber, and condition of the gun pointed at you, and forgetting to dodge when it's fired."

"A most unfortunate drawback," Steed said.

"That's why it's important to have a partner who _isn't_ hyperobservant in order to keep you grounded and safe."

"So I'm not useless after all," Steed grinned. "I understand. I'll watch out for the big stuff; you keep your eyes on the little stuff."

She scanned the exhibits. "Where's the Minister going to be speaking? I should memorize the details now. That way, I can detect when someone wearing the formula shows up."

Steed nodded. "The new gallery is this way."

"Seventeen steps from the main hall," Emma began. "Four glass cases on one side, three on the other. Five fire sprinklers on the ceiling, one burnt-out light bulb. There are two men lying on the floor at the entrance," she observed. "One has his hands pressed between his thighs."

"The guards!"

"Judging from the attitude of the bodies, the closest one received a sharp blow near the carotid artery, rendering him temporarily unconscious," she continued. "The other had his groin plexus stunned by a knee or instep, leaving him unable to stand."

"Hyperobservancy hardly needed," Steed said wryly. "It could be Leov's handiwork."

Emma helped the gasping guard back to his feet. "What happened?"

"I can't remember much... Just vague impressions." He stared at Emma. "A woman... dressed in leather, like you." The guard looked anxiously down at her knee, as if he expected her to attack as well.

"Relax. I'm on your side." Emma patted the guard's back sympathetically. "If she used a standard _kin-geri_, the effects should wear off in a few minutes."

Steed frowned. "Leov must have been wearing Formula Thirteen. Why attack the guards?"

"They're men," Emma said. "She couldn't resist putting them in their place."

"It shows us something else," Steed mused. "A strong physical stimulus, such as an attack, can temporarily overcome the effects of the formula. Otherwise, the guard wouldn't have remembered how it happened."

-oOo-

The Minister was beginning his speech at the portable lectern. The assassin was preparing his rifle at the back of the crowd, not twenty feet away from John Steed and Emma Peel.

Pyotr checked the scope and loaded a single round into the chamber. He was dressed in a black turtleneck sweater and slacks, a sharp contrast to Steed's impeccably tailored suit and bowler.

"Amazing!" Leov breathed. "Your wife doesn't even see you!"

"No different than before," the Ladja snorted. "Emma always spent her time obsessing over her father's company. I'll at least give Steed some credit for breaking her of that habit."

Leov wrinkled her mouth. There was no reason that Pyotr should prefer his wife—she was skinny and nowhere near as well-endowed, although her leathers did cling rather nicely. It was mostly Mrs. Peel's insufferable righteousness that she couldn't stand.

"Everything seems to be in order," Steed remarked.

Emma shook her head in disagreement. "We're not alone. That display rope isn't in the same position it was a few seconds ago." She pointed directly to the spot where the two intruders were stationed.

Leov gasped, "She can see us!"

"Nonsense," the Ladja said. "She's just guessing. Still, it wouldn't hurt to move." They crossed over to the other side of the room.

"There!" Emma said. "The shadow pattern on the floor is all wrong. The assassin's moved."

Leov looked around in panic. "Could the Ministry have come up with some antidote?"

The Ladja frowned. "If it did, she would already be all over us. She's using a trick, some sort of heightened observational skill."

Steed asked, "Can you see anyone?"

Emma shook her head. "Just a blurry shape." Her eyes darted back and forth as she tried to lock down the assassin's position. "There's no time to wait. If it's Leov, she could be taking aim right now."

Steed was already in motion. "Keep concentrating. We may be able to catch them by surprise."

Pyotr snorted, "The day you surprise me..." He turned to Ursula. "I have to leave. If Emma sees me, _truly_ sees me, my plan's finished. Since there's no time to properly wound the Minister, I'll at least let him know he's not safe with Steed." He pointed the rifle at the glass case behind the Minister's head.

There was a crack followed by the sharp crash of breaking glass. Steed had just reached the podium and threw his body in the line of fire. The Minister ducked for cover while the crowd scattered in panic. Shards of glass rained on the floor.

"There's no time to waste," Leov said as she bent over to retrieve the shell. "We should run."

"It's Leov!" Emma cried. "I see her!"

The Ladja started to sprint for the entrance. "You stay behind to delay Emma," he ordered. "Lure her into the whale and lock her inside."

"The whale? But... how?"

"It's a Ministry emergency cache. I remember it from my agent training—the welds around the lower trapdoor are fake. Press on the left flange. Make sure Emma sees you go inside, and then pretend to hide. When she follows you through the hatch, overpower her, slip back outside, and wedge the door."

Emma was squinting at the entrance to the room. "She's getting away!" Without waiting for Steed, she took off at a dead run.

"Mrs. Peel!" Steed called. He couldn't join her in the pursuit—he had to stay and guard the Minister. For all he knew, Mistress Leov may not have been acting alone.

The entrance to the New Whale Hall was unguarded. The two women thundered down the hallway, but Leov had a head start; she ducked into the gallery of large mammals.

Emma stopped to pull a small cylinder out of the hidden pocket in her leathers. Dr. Crenshaw's secret weapon—an inhaler filled with pure oxygen. She sucked down a big gulp and held her breath. The fresh air momentarily dispelled the fog in her head. She could clearly see her opponent.

Leov had somehow opened a door on the underside of the massive 6-ton blue whale model, and was climbing in. Emma decided to wait until the Mistress was out of sight, to let her think that her concealment had worked. Then she would charge into the whale and dismantle the chesty Russian.

When Emma finally poked her head through the lower hatch, she was prepared for an ambush; but Leov was nowhere in sight. Since the interior of the whale was nearly 70 feet long, she could be hiding anywhere. Cigarette butts on the floor showed that they were not the first to be inside here.

Emma knew immediately that she was in trouble. In the enclosed space, the concentration of Formula Thirteen was much greater than outside; even hyperobservancy was not enough to neutralize the effect. It was possible she wouldn't even be able to detect her enemy. She reached for the inhaler, but a sharp, smacking fist knocked it from her hand.

"So, Mrs. Peel," Leov smirked. "At last, we can battle it out here, where we won't be disturbed." She kicked the inhaler out of reach for emphasis.

"A personal duel in the belly of the beast!"

-oOo-


End file.
